


Graveyard Shift

by QueenofBaws (Sisterwives)



Category: Silent Hill
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied Incest, Implied childhood physical abuse, Implied childhood trauma, Nothing overtly stated or described, Paranoia, Possible Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 16:01:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sisterwives/pseuds/QueenofBaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The town has its ways. Horrible, mysterious ways. </p><p>But how could she know that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graveyard Shift

She hadn't slept in days. The dark rings under her eyes bore testament to that fact, making her youthful face seem gaunt, sallow,  _haunted_. She hadn't bothered trying any cosmetic fixes, either, hoping that perhaps it would deter the restaurant's more rambunctious patrons from making their usual advances. It hadn't worked, but then again, nothing she ever tried  _did_.  
  
Angela Orosco was a lot of things, in life. But not lucky. Never lucky.   
  
When the dive closed for the night, the buzz of the neon OPEN sign clicking off with a cold sort of finality, she was dead on her feet. It had been her third double shift in a week, and not even the reinforced arches of her shoes could stop the screaming agony of her feet. So when the new girl--Martha? Maggie? Maria?--had asked for her help with clearing the last few booths, she'd leapt on the opportunity.   
  
The creaking of her joints was nearly audible as she eased herself down onto the bench, the cheap plastic immediately clinging to the skin of her legs. But by now, she was long past the point of caring for comfort. Her eyelids were already so heavy, and the moment she sat down, she felt the weariness of the past week settle deep in her bones.   
  
To her credit, Angela lasted a whole thirty seconds before her consciousness began to wane. She had made the mistake of leaning her head against her hand for only a moment, as she she did so, the darkness of slumber slowly tightened its grip on her. She was too weak, too tired to fight it. And while it might've seemed an ordinary scene to an outsider, it was precisely what she'd been trying so desperately to avoid.  
  
Because when Angela slept, she  _remembered_.  
  
It would come to her in flashes, unsettling little details that set her teeth on edge and her hair on end. The telltale creaking of the floorboards just outside her bedroom door, the wet and heavy scent of copper, the sting of sweat in her eyes, the acrid tang of smoke in her nose. And the  _screams_.  
  
She jolted awake, the sickly sweet smell of pine sap caught in the back of her throat. She choked on it, fighting her gorge to keep from retching, feeling the familiar rush of saliva and bile up her throat.  
  
"Angela?"  
  
As though she'd been slapped, she recoiled from the voice in her ear, lifting her legs and scrambling farther into the booth, knocking her knee hard against the table, in the process. In her confused state, the sudden surge of pain was taken as an attack, and she grabbed the first thing her fingers closed upon--the place setting's dulled and worn steak knife--holding it out in front of herself warningly. "Don't touch me!" Angela shrieked, jaw clenched tight with adrenaline and terror.   
  
" _Ugh_! What is  _wrong_  with you?!  _Psycho_!"  
  
It wasn't until she built up the nerve to turn her head that she realized what had happened. From where she had curled herself up, she watched the new girl storm away from the table, muttering loudly all the while, "What is her  _deal_?!"  
  
"She's on drugs or  _something_ ," one of the other waitresses replied, favoring Angela and her makeshift weapon with a particularly sour sidelong glance.  
  
Immediately, Angela dropped the knife, face heating up with humiliation. "I-I'm sorry…" she stuttered, voice much too small to reach the other girl. Eyes downcast and nerves jingling, she finished clearing the booth, blinking away the red-hot tears threatening to warp her vision.   
  
"Orosco." She looked up as she walked into the back room with her tray of dirty silverware, only to drop her eyes in shame at the look the owner was giving her. "Go home."  
  
She nodded, already feeling her throat tighten. The tears burned even worse, now, and she doubted wholly that she'd be able to contain herself until she got back to her apartment.  
  
With the quick, agitated movements of a frightened animal, she grabbed her jacket from the closet, shrugging it on and hurrying out the door. Once the night air hit her, she shivered, reaching down to tug at the unnecessarily high hemline of her uniform's skirt. All of a sudden, she felt like she was showing too much skin.  _Far_  too much.  
  
A weak sob tried to escape her, but she swallowed it back, keeping her eyes on the ground and her hands on her skirt, quickly making her way to the complex on the other side of the block. In the dim yellow light of the street lamps, shadows metamorphosed and ran wild, picket fences reaching out for her legs with their probingly elongated fingers, parked cars harboring demonic attackers, fire hydrants lying in wait to drag her into darkened sewer lines…  
  
Angela fumbled with her keys as she neared her building, trying to appear engaged enough in the task so as to escape any interaction with the two men loitering near the mail room, cigarettes burning like the yellow eyes of a nocturnal predator searching for its prey. She could feel them staring at her as she unlocked her door, and all at once, she became convinced they were waiting to pounce. She'd open the door, they'd grab her, they'd--  
  
With a deep breath and sweating palms, she reached for the doorknob, timing it just so. She sprang into action, yanking the door open, bounding inside, and slamming it shut behind her again. In rapid succession, she secured the door--lock, bolt, chain, latch, in that order--feeling her anxiety begin to ebb away.   
  
After double checking its hold, Angela let out a mournful sigh, pressing her back to the cold wood of the door. Her knees gave out then, simply buckled under her weight, sending her to the floor in one fell movement that was neither slow nor graceful. And with that, the dam broke. She buried her face in her hands and bawled deep, painful sobs that scratched her throat and stole her breath. Her tears scorched her skin, but she was too tired to wipe them away. She simply stayed there, curled on the floor in a pitiful heap, until her tears ran dry and her sobs tapered into quiet hiccups.  
  
As her breath returned to her, so did her bearings. Though it hurt her in more ways than one, she slowly took to her feet once more, staggering numbly into her bedroom. She didn't have far to go--the studio apartment wasn't much larger than a closet, really--but it felt like eons before she reached her bed.  
  
She wouldn't risk falling asleep again, not after what had happened at work, but she allowed herself to sit as she changed into something she felt more secure in. Reaching up, she removed her hair from its ponytail, shaking it down and out until it fell in a dark curtain over her eyes.  
  
That was better.  
  
Blinking thickly, like a child in the throes of a cold, she wrapped her arms around herself, staring down at her feet. She  _had_  to get a hold of herself. As decrepit and minuscule as the apartment was, there was still rent to pay, food to buy, utilities to cover…she  _couldn't_  lose another job. After all, it wasn't as though there was anyone she could ask for help.  
  
Her attention was caught, then, by the flashing red light of the answering machine out in the hall. Brow furrowed, Angela glanced around the apartment as though expecting a trap. It wasn't terribly often that anyone call her, nowadays, and the whole scenario somehow felt torn from a page of some cheap horror novel. All the same, there was a hollow, hungry pit in her stomach, and she'd have to pass the machine to get to the kitchen, anyway…  
  
Sliding her feet along the floor, she shuffled tiredly to where the answering machine sat on a side table, hesitantly reaching to press the play button.  
  
"You have," the cold, robotic voice began, before a bout of thick static caused Angela to jump. She gasped, clapping her hand to her chest before realizing it was only the machine, exhaling a nervous laugh as she toyed with its cords in an attempt to fix what she assumed was a faulty connection--everything in the apartment was constantly on the verge of breaking down. "…essage received at three oh-seven p.m.," the prerecorded voice continued, punctuated by a squealing beep.  
  
"Miss Orosco? Hi, this is Mr. Fitzgerald, just reminding you that your rent was due this morning…"  
  
Angela deflated once more--of  _course_  she'd forgotten to deliver that check, she couldn't do  _anything_  right--and moved into the kitchen as the messages played. She'd have to bring the check down in the near future, if she wanted to avoid getting charged extra, but already she dreaded having to make those stumbling apologies for her tardiness. She never liked the way Fitzgerald looked at her, either, from the corner of his eye…  
  
Shuddering, she pulled open the door to the refrigerator, rummaging for something remotely edible. She'd nearly forgotten the answering machine was still on, when it let out another strained beep, signaling another message. Probably just someone who wanted her to cover their shift at work, she figured. Knitting her brow, Angela pulled the carton of milk out of the fridge. There was no way that was still good. All the same, she unscrewed the cap and took a tentative sniff, only to immediately regret the decision. Gagging, she turned her head away, trying to erase the foul stench from her mind.  
  
"Angela, honey, I thought I'd try calling, but I guess you're not home…"  
  
The carton of milk dropped from her hand, spilling onto the floor. Angela stood stock-still, eyes wide and mouth agape.  
  
For the life of her, she couldn't move.  
  
"I hope you don't mind…your brother told me I could reach you at this number. I know it's…it's been a while," the voice on the machine continued, filling her head with a warm, buzzing sense of déjà vu. "But maybe we should talk. Things have been so difficult since…well…"  
  
"Mama?" Angela sputtered, gaze vacant and far-off as her mother's voice filled the apartment.  
  
"If you'd like to talk, Angela, you know where you can find me." The machine clicked off abruptly, leaving an eerie stillness to settle over her in its silence.  
  
She stood like that for a long time, her exhausted brain trying to process exactly what she'd just heard. Her mama. But…but it had been so long. What did she mean, she'd know where to find her? She'd been gone for such a long time, and she hadn't left an address or anything. How did she expect Angela to find her?  
  
The tears were welling up in her eyes again, spilling over onto her cheeks in quiet rivulets. There was nothing-- _nothing_ \--she wanted more than to see her mama again, but  _what did she mean_? There was no way she meant the old house, not after the way she'd left them, and the only other place they'd ever been as a family had been--  
  
Silent Hill.  
  
At the thought, her heart  _soared_. That had to be it, it just  _had_  to! Almost as if on cue, her memory flooded with images of the cozy little resort town, the amusement part, the lake. She could remember, now, the look in her mother's eye, the tone in her voice when she swore in a perfect world, they'd stay there  _forever_.  
  
As though possessed, she sprung into action, sliding her feet--milk-dampened socks and all--into her sneakers, all but running out the door.   
  
She'd worry later about her rent, the curdled milk stagnating on the floor. Because the buses were still running, at that time of night, and she had to get to Silent Hill. She had to see her mama.  
  
It had been such a long, long time since she'd seen her mama.


End file.
